CAST OF CHARACTERS
MRS. DOWEY
MRS. MICKLEHAM
MRS. TULLY
MRS. HAGGERTY
THE REV. MR. WILKINSON
PRIVATE K. DOWEY OF THE BLACK WATCH
Scene I: MRS. DOWEY’S living-room in a London basement, in the afternoon.
Scene II: The same. Five days later, at night.
Scene III: The same. A month or two later in the early morning.
A basement in a drab locality in London; the kitchen, sitting-room and bedroom of MRS. DOWEY, the charwoman. It is a poor room, as small as possible but clean and tidy; not at all bare, but containing many little articles and adornments. The window at the back shows the area wall and a few steps up to the street, the level of which can just be seen. The door to the area is L.C. The door to a small scullery is in the right wall rather up stage, below which is a small kitchen grate. In the left wall is a piece of furniture with the appearance of a cheap wardrobe, but which is, in fact, a bed which can be let down. Below this is a small chest of drawers. There is a shabby deal table, its length across the stage, set R.C., with two wooden chairs above it and one at each end.
The time is about 5 p.m.
The curtain rises on MRS. DOWEY entertaining three other charwomen to tea. She is on the right of the table. On her left, above the table, is MRS. MICKLEHAM, on whose left is MRS. TULLY. MRS. HAGGERTY, the unpopular one, is at the left end of the table.
There is no tablecloth, but there is tea, bread and butter, a dish of shrimps, of which only two are left, jam, and winkles—even a small sponge cake The loaf and two cut slices are near the hostess. The remaining shrimps, it is noted, are within easy reach of MRS. HAGGERTY.
There is a cheerful fire, and the kettle steams on the hob.
All the ladies are elderly, typical, without exaggeration, of their profession. MRS. MICKLEHAM, whose cap and shawl are on a chair above the bed, is the plump one. MRS. HAGGERTY, whose things are on the chair up R., is small and rather pathetic. MRS. TULLY, apt to be aggressive, wears her shabby hat, an old coat over the back of her chair. MRS. DOWEY has a pale brave face; a Scotswoman who has made a fine struggle against poverty in London.
It is wartime, and the conversation fluctuates between military strategy and dress fashions.
MRS. DOWEY stands R., re-filling the teapot with hot water.
MRS. DOWEY [crossing back to the table]. Another cup of tea, Mrs. Mickleham? [MRS. MICKLEHAM waves the offer away.] Mrs. Haggerty?
MRS. HAGGERTY. No, I thank you, I’ve had so much tea I’m fair running over.
[Looks of disapproval.]
MRS. DOWEY. Another winkle?
MRS. HAGGERTY. If I took one more winkle it’d have to swim for it.
MRS. DOWEY [to MRS. TULLY]. The shrimps are with you, Sarah. There’s two yet.
MRS. TULLY. Two shrimps yet? There’s twelve yet.
MRS. HAGGERTY [feeling this is meant for her]. How d’you make that out, ma’am?
MRS. TULLY [who has been nursing a grievance]. There’s these two, Mrs. Haggerty, and there’s the five you had, and the four Mrs. Mickleham had, and the one I had.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. But they’re eaten.
MRS. TULLY [after a glance at MRS. HAGGERTY]. In Germany, Mrs. Mickleham, when a shrimp is eaten, is that the end of the shrimp?
[MRS. MICKLEHAM nods approval of this thrust.]
MRS. HAGGERTY. It may be so.
MRS. TULLY. I suppose I ought to know, me that has a son a prisoner in Germany. [Rather bumptiously.] Being the only lady present that has that proud misfortune.
[They are humiliated for a moment. Then:]
MRS. DOWEY. My son’s fighting in France.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. Mine is wounded in two places.
MRS. HAGGERTY. Mine is at Salonikkey.
[The others look at her, and she is annoyed.]
MRS. DOWEY [firmly but not unkindly]. You’ll excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty, but the correct pronunciation is Salonikey.
MRS. HAGGERTY. I don’t think. [With a little more spirit than usual.] And I speak as one that has War Savings Certificates.
MRS. TULLY. We all have them.
[They disdain MRS. HAGGERTY, and she whimpers.]
MRS. DOWEY [to restore cheerfulness]. Oh, it’s a terrible war. [General chorus of: “It is.” “You may say so.”] The men is splendid, but I’m none so easy about the staff. That’s your weak point, Mrs. Mickleham.
MRS. MICKLEHAM [instantly on the defensive]. What none of you grasp is that this is a h’artillery war. Now ...
MRS. HAGGERTY. I say the word is Salonikkey.
[Having surreptitiously eaten the final shrimps, she is strengthened. But the others only display disgust at her ignorance.]
MRS. TULLY. We’ll change the subjeck. [She takes a magazine from the front of her dress.] Have you seen this week’s “Fashion Chat”? [All very attentive.] The plain smock has come in again with the silk lacing, giving that charming cheek effect.
MRS. DOWEY. Oho! I must say I was always partial to the straight line—though trying to them as is of too friendly a figure. [Her eye considers briefly MRS. MICKLEHAM’S want of “line.” MRS. MICKLEHAM is resentfully conscious of this and listens earnestly to MRS. TULLY’S next.]
MRS. TULLY [reading]. “Lady Dolly Kinley was seen conversing across the railings in a dainty de jou.”
MRS. MICKLEHAM [eating it]. Was she now?
MRS. TULLY. “She is equally popular as maid, wife, mother, and munition worker.” [Great approval.] “Lady Pops Babington was married in a tight tulle.”
MRS. HAGGERTY [fortified by stolen sugar]. What was her going-away dress?
MRS. TULLY [rolling it out]. “A champagny cream velvet with dreamy corsage. She’s married to Colonel the Honourable Chingford.—‘Snubs’ they called him at Eton.”
MRS. HAGGERTY. Very likely he’ll be sent to Salonikkey.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. Wherever he’s sent, she’ll have the same tremors as the rest of us. She’ll be as keen to get the letters wrote in pencil as you or me.
MRS. TULLY. Them pencil letters!
MRS. DOWEY [timidly]. And women in enemy lands gets those pencil letters—and then stops getting them, the same as ourselves—let’s sometimes think of that.
[The ladies gasp. Chairs are pushed back.]
MRS. TULLY. I’ve heard of females that have no male relations, and so have no man-party at the war. I’ve heard of them—but I don’t mix with them.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. What can the likes of us have to say to them? It’s not their war.
MRS. DOWEY. They are to be pitied.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. But the place for them, Mrs. Dowey, is within doors with the blinds down.
MRS. DOWEY [hurriedly]. Ay, that’s the place for them.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. I saw one of them today, buying a flag. I thought it was very impudent of her.
MRS. DOWEY [meekly]. So it was.
MRS. MICKLEHAM [preening herself and looking at the others]. I had a letter from my son Percy today.
MRS. TULLY [not to be outdone]. Alfred sent me his photo.
MRS. HAGGERTY. Letters from Salonikkey is less common.
[A general display of pride except from MRS. DOWEY, who doggedly sets her lips.]
MRS. DOWEY. Kenneth writes to me every week. [Exclamations of incredulity. She rises, and crosses L.] I’ll show you. [She takes a packet of letters, tied up, from the chest of drawers.] Look at this. All his.
[MRS. HAGGERTY who, behind her hostess’s back has just taken and eaten another piece of sugar, whimpers.]
MRS. MICKLEHAM. My word!
MRS. TULLY. Alfred has little time for writing, being a bombardier.
MRS. DOWEY [L.C.]. Do your letters begin “Dear Mother”?
MRS. TULLY. Generally.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. Invariable.
MRS. HAGGERTY. Every time.
MRS. DOWEY. Kenneth’s begin—“Dearest mother.”
[Speechless, their eyes follow her as she goes up to R.C. and fetches a little tray from a small table.]
MRS. TULLY. A short man, I should say, judging by yourself.
MRS. Dowey [coming down to R. end of the table]. Six feet two—and a half.
[The others are depressed.]
MRS. HAGGERTY. A kilty, did you tell me?
MRS. DOWEY [smiling]. Most certainly. He’s in the famous Black Watch.
MRS. HAGGERTY [tearful]. The Surrey Rifles is the famousest.
MRS. MICKLEHAM [pushing her plate away and leaning forward]. There, you and the King disagree, Mrs. Haggerty. The King’s choice is the Buffs—same as my Percy’s.
MRS. TULLY [sitting back, complacent]. Give me the R.H.A., and you can keep the rest.
MRS. DOWEY [putting plates and cups on the tray]. I’m sure I’ve nothing to say against the Surreys [this to MRS. HAGGERTY]—nor the R.H.A. [to MRS. TULLY]—nor the Buffs [to MRS. MICKLEHAM. She lifts the filled tray]—but they’re all three just breeches regiments, I understand.
MRS. HAGGERTY. We can’t all be kilties.
MRS. Dowey [with satisfaction]. That’s verra true. [She takes the tray up to the little table.]
MRS. TULLY [trying again]. Has your Kenneth great hairy legs?
MRS. DOWEY [coming back to R. of the table]. Enormous.
[The depression deepens.]
MRS. HAGGERTY [rising, speaks across the table]. At any rate, it’s Salonikkey. [She goes up to the window at the back and glances out, then sees some one is descending the steps.] Ho ho!
[The others turn to look at her.]
MRS. TULLY. Who is it, Mrs. Haggerty?
MRS. HAGGERTY [moving R.]. It’s the Reverent gent.
[There is instant movement. They rise, MRS. DOWEY moves down R. MRS. MICKLEHAM to above her chair, MRS. TULLY to L. of the table. All tidy themselves, smooth hair, etc.]
[There is a knock at the door, but the visitor enters at once. It is the REV. MR. WILKINSON, a curate. He is a very good fellow, to whom every little incident in which he figures is of astounding importance. He imparts any information with an air of profound secrecy.]
WILKINSON [up L.]. Quite a party! [MRS. TULLY offers a chair, dusting it with her apron, forestalling MRS. DOWEY, who had moved to do the same. MR. WILKINSON waves the chair aside.] Thank you—not at all. [Glowing with the surprise in store.] Friends, I have news!
[All are instantly anxious. MRS. HAGGERTY moves down a step.]
MRS. MICKLEHAM [coming to back of the table]. News?
MRS. HAGGERTY. From the Front?
MRS. TULLY [a step towards MR. WILKINSON]. My Alfred, sir ?
WILKINSON [with a calming gesture]. I tell you at once, all’s well. [General relief.] The news—[with an air] is for Mrs. Dowey.
MRS. DOWEY [who is really a lonely soul, is thunder-struck]. News? For me?
WILKINSON [with triumph]. Your son, Mrs. Dowey—he has got five days’ leave! [She wets her lips, unable to speak, and lays the letters on L. end of the table. The others all look at her, pleased, if a little envious.] Now, now! Good news doesn’t kill.
MRS. TULLY [sincerely]. We’re glad, Mrs. Dowey.
MRS. DOWEY [moving a pace L., speaks directly to MR. WILKINSON]. You’re—sure?
WILKINSON. Quite sure. He has arrived!
MRS. DOWEY. He’s in London?
WILKINSON. He is. I have spoken to him.
MRS. MICKLEHAM [to MRS. DOWEY]. You lucky!
MRS. DOWEY [to WILKINSON]. Where?
WILKINSON [up to MRS. TULLY]. Ladies, it’s quite a romance! I was in the—[he glances round cautiously before continuing] in the Church Army quarters in Central Street, trying to get on the track of one or two of our missing men, when—suddenly, I can’t account for it—my eyes alighted on a Highlander seated rather drearily on a bench with his kit at his feet.
MRS. HAGGERTY [anxiously, approaching R. end of the table]. A big man?
WILKINSON. A great brawny fellow. [MRS. HAGGERTY sighs and turns away.] “My friend,” I said at once, “welcome back to Blighty!” I make a point of calling it Blighty. “I wonder,” I said, “if there is anything I can do for you?” He shook his head. “What regiment?” I asked. “Black Watch, Fifth Battalion,” he said. “Name?” I asked. [A slight pause.] Dowey!” says he. [Triumphantly.] “Kenneth Dowey,” I said, “I know your mother.”
MRS. HAGGERTY. I declare! I do declare!
MRS. DOWEY [quietly, again wetting her lips]. What did he say to that?
WILKINSON. He was incredulous. Indeed, he seemed to think I was balmy. But I offered to bring him straight to you. I told him how much you had talked to me about him.
MRS. DOWEY [almost in a whisper]. Bring him here?
MRS. MICKLEHAM. I wonder he needed to be brought.
WILKINSON. He had just arrived, and was bewildered in the great city. He listened to me in his taciturn Scotch way, and then he gave a curious laugh.
MRS. TULLY. Laugh?
WILKINSON [turning to her]. The Scottish, Mrs. Tully, express their emotions differently from us. With them, tears signify a rollicking mood, while merriment denotes that they are plunged in gloom. When I had finished, he said, “Let’s go and see the old lady.”
MRS. DOWEY [picking up the letters without glancing down, backs a step]. Is he—coming ?
WILKINSON. He has come! He is up there!
MRS. MICKLEHAM [goes to the window]. My word!
[The other two guests follow her.]
WILKINSON [moving towards MRS. DOWEY]. I told him I thought I had better break the joyful news to you.
MRS. DOWEY [in a low, urgent voice]. Get them away. [She goes down L. to the chest of drawers.]
WILKINSON [turning up to the others]. Ladies, I think this happy occasion scarcely requires us. [They nod acquiescence.] I don’t mean to stay, myself.
[MRS. MICKLEHAM goes to the chair above the bed for her cap and shawl and pail.]
MRS. TULLY [putting on her coat and cap]. I would thank none for their company if my Alfred was at the door. [She goes up to the door with the pail.] A noble five days to you, Mrs. Dowey.
[MRS. HAGGERTY has fetched her things from the chair above the fire.]
MRS. HAGGERTY [to R. of MRS. TULLY]. The same from me.
MRS. TULLY [to WILKINSON]. Shall I send him down, sir?
WILKINSON. Yes, do! Do!
[Exit MRS. TULLY and MRS. HAGGERTY.]
MRS. MICKLEHAM. Look at the poor joyous thing, sir. She has his letters in her hand.
[She exits after the others.]
WILKINSON [coming down a little]. A good son to have written to you so often, Mrs. Dowey. [The letters slip from her hand to the floor. He picks them up and gives them back.] There! There!
[DOWEY is seen descending the steps outside. He enters up L. He is a big grim fellow in field service kit, with kilt, bonnet, overcoat, scarf, etc., of the Black Watch. They are muddy. He carries pack and rifle. He is a dour-looking fellow at present.]
WILKINSON [Up to L. of DOWEY, who is up C.]. Dowey, there she is, waiting for you with your letters in her hand.
DOWEY [grimly]. That’s great!
[MR. WILKINSON goes off consciously and stealthily, without looking behind him. He closes the door and is seen to ascend the steps, and off. DOWEY surveys MRS. DOWEY, lowering the butt of his rifle. She backs a pace or two, timidly.]
DOWEY. Do you recognize your loving son, Missis? [He puts his rifle against the chair above the bed and comes to C., on the left of the table.] I’m pleased I wrote to ye so often. [Roughly.] Let’s see them. [Stepping to her, he takes the letters from her hand, and returns C. She moves a pace nearer him. He pulls off the ribbon and examines the letters. ] Nothing but blank paper! Is this your writing on the envelopes? [She can only nod.] The covey told me you were a charwoman, so I suppose you picked the envelopes out of waste-paper baskets, and then changed the address—them being written in pencil. [She nods again.] Hah !
[He strides above the table to the fire. She follows him quickly below the table, on his L.]
MRS. DOWEY. Don’t you burn them letters, Mister!
DOWEY [staying his hand]. They’re not real letters.
MRS. DOWEY. They’re all I have.
DOWEY [ironically]. I thought you had a son?
MRS. DOWEY [turning her face from him a little]. I never had a son, nor a husband, nor anything. I just call myself Missis to give me a standing.
DOWEY [amazed]. Well, it’s past my understanding. [He throws the letters on the table.] What made you do it?
MRS. DOWEY. It was everybody’s war except mine. I wanted it to be my war too.
DOWEY. You’ll need to be plainer…
MRS. DOWEY. Well—I—–
DOWEY [crossing back above the table]. And yet I’m d——d if I care to hear, you lying old trickster !
[He goes to the rifle L. and picks it up.]
MRS. DOWEY [following him, to L. end of the table]. You’re not going already?
DOWEY. Yes. I just came to give you a piece of my mind.
MRS. DOWEY [with a little begging gesture]. You haven’t given it to me yet.
[He gives a short, hard laugh. His rifle butt thuds on the floor.]
DOWEY. You have a cheek! [He stares at her.]
MRS. DOWEY. You wouldn’t—drink some tea? [She goes R. towards the fire.]
DOWEY [following her to L. end of the table]. Me! I tell you I came here for the one purpose of blazing away at you!
MRS. DOWEY [putting the kettle on the hob]. You could drink the tea while you was blazing away. [With a nod at the table.] There’s shrimps.
DOWEY [interested]. Is there? [About to take one, then checks.] Not me. You’re just a common rogue. [He sits in MRS. TULLY’S chair, about a yard L. of the table.] Now then, out with it! [He roars.] Sit down! [She returns to R. of the table.] Although it’s on your knees you should be to me.
MRS. DOWEY. I’m willing.
DOWEY. Stop it! [She sits, and fingers the letters.] Go on, you accomplished liar.
MRS. DOWEY. It’s true that my name is Dowey.
DOWEY. It’s enough to make me change mine.
MRS. DOWEY. I’ve been charring and charring and charring as far back as I mind. I’ve been in London this twenty years.
DOWEY [moving restlessly]. We’ll skip your early days. I’ve an appointment.
MRS. DOWEY. And then, when I was old, the war broke out.
DOWEY. How could it affect you ?
MRS. DOWEY [rising, she speaks with slow hesitation]. Oh, Mister, that’s the thing. It didn’t affect me. It affected everybody but me. The neighbours looked down on me. Even the posters on the walls, of the woman saying, “Go, my boy,” leered at me. I sometimes cried by myself in the dark. [She moves tentatively to the hob.] You won’t have a cup of tea?
DOWEY. No.
MRS. DOWEY. Sudden-like, the idea came to me to pretend I had a son.
DOWEY. You nasty old limmer! But what in the name of old Nick made you choose me out of the whole British Army ?
MRS. DOWEY [with a sly chuckle, she approaches him]. Maybe, Mister, it was because I liked you best.
DOWEY [sitting up, sharply]. Now, now, woman!
MRS. DOWEY. I read one day in the papers, “In which he was assisted by Private K. Dowey, 5th Battalion, Black Watch.”
DOWEY [flattered]. Did you, now? Well, I expect that’s the only time I was ever in the papers.
MRS. DOWEY [quickly]. But I didn’t choose you for that alone.
DOWEY. Eh?
MRS. DOWEY. I read a history of the Black Watch first to make sure it was the best regiment in the world.
DOWEY [complacently]. Anybody could have told you that. [He rises, to the table, on her L. Almost unconsciously he picks up a loaf.] I like the voice of you—[unthinkingly, he is cutting a slice] it drummles on like a Scotch burn.
MRS. DOWEY. Brosen Water runs by where I was born. [He notices the shrimps. She observes this.] Maybe it learned me to speak, Mister.
[He looks at her sharply. Then, evasively:]
DOWEY. Oh, havers! [He takes and skins a shrimp.]
MRS. DOWEY [sitting R. end of the table]. I read about the Black Watch’s ghostly piper, that plays proudly when the men of the Black Watch do well, and still prouder when they fall.
DOWEY [pleased, still busy with the shrimp]. Ay, there’s some foolish story of the kind. [He looks at her.] But you couldn’t have been living here at the time, or they would have guessed. [He carelessly butters the slice.] I suppose you changed your place of residence?
MRS. DOWEY. Ay! It cost eleven and six-pence.
DOWEY [puts down the slice and takes another shrimp]. How did you guess that the “K” in my name stood for Kenneth?
MRS. DOWEY. Does it? [He nods.] An angel whispered it to me in my sleep.
DOWEY [picks up the buttered slice and comes down below the table]. That’s the only angel in the whole black business. [He crosses to the fireplace. ] You little thought I would turn up. [He swings round sharply.] Or did you?
MRS. DOWEY [rising, moves above the table, not looking at him]. I was wearying for a sight of you—[she looks down at the table] Kenneth.
DOWEY [who was about to take a bite, checks]. What word was that?
MRS. DOWEY [humbly correcting herself].—Mister.
DOWEY [sarcastically]. I hope you’re pleased with me now you see me. [He takes a bite of bread.]
MRS. DOWEY [earnestly]. I’m very pleased.
[DOWEY sits R. of the table. She pushes the jam-pot to him.]
DOWEY. No, thank you.
[Disappointed, MRS. DOWEY turns away L. An idea strikes her and she goes L. to the chest of drawers and brings out the cash-box, returning to C.]
MRS. DOWEY. Look, I have five War Savings Certificates.
DOWEY [munching]. That’s nought to me.
MRS. DOWEY. I’ll soon have six.
DOWEY [dourly]. What care I?
MRS. DOWEY. You’re hard.
DOWEY. I am.
[She goes back L. and returns the cash-box to the drawer; then comes back to L. of the table.]
MRS.DOWEY. Does your folk live in Scotland?
DOWEY [unconsciously spreading jam on the bread]. Glasgow.
MRS. DOWEY. Both living?
DOWEY. Umpha.
MRS. DOWEY. Is your mother terrible proud of you?
DOWEY. Naturally.
MRS. DOWEY. You’ll be going to them?
DOWEY. After I’ve had a skite in London first.
MRS. DOWEY [with a little sniff]. So she’s in London?
DOWEY. Who?
MRS. DOWEY. Your young lady.
DOWEY. Are you jealyous ?
MRS. DOWEY [haughtily]. Not me!
DOWEY [reaching out for more jam]. You needna. She’s a young thing.
MRS. DOWEY [sarcastic]. You surprise me. A beauty, no doubt?
DOWEY. Famous. [Swallowing a mouthful.] She’s a titled person. Her picture’s in all the papers. She is equally popular as maid, wife, mother, and munition worker.
MRS. DOWEY [remembering]. Oh!
DOWEY. She’s sent me a lot of things—especially cakes, and a worsted waistcoat—with a loving message on the enclosed card.
MRS. DOWEY [coming to above L. end of the table]. Do you know her?
DOWEY. Only in the illustrations. But she may have seen me.
MRS. DOWEY. You’ll try one of my cakes. [She goes towards the scullery.]
DOWEY. Not me.
[MRS. DOWEY goes into the scullery, returning at once with a plate of small cakes. They should be of unusual appearance. She puts them on the table within his reach.]
MRS. DOWEY. They’re my own making.
DOWEY [looking sharply at them]. Well I’m d—–d!
MRS. DOWEY. How?
DOWEY. That’s exactly the same kind of cake that her ladyship sends me.
MRS DOWEY [in her glory]. Is the waistcoat right? [He pushes away his plate.] I hope the Black Watch colours pleased you, Mister.
DOWEY [rising]. Wha-at? Was it you?
MRS. DOWEY [for the moment a little scared again]. I dared not give my own name, you see, and everyone’s familiar with hers.
DOWEY [backing a little R.]. “Woman! Is there no getting rid of you?
MRS. DOWEY [her courage returning]. Are you angry?
DOWEY. Oh, hell! Give me some tea. [He sits at the table again.]
[MRS. DOWEY hurries happily into the scullery, returning at once with duplicate teapot with tea ready made, and a cup and saucer. The latter she puts on the table. The teapot she takes to the hob. Business of pouring hot water in. During this DOWEY has been eating.]
MRS. DOWEY [putting the teapot in front of him]. Kenneth!
DOWEY [this time he does not notice the use of his name]. What?
MRS. DOWEY. Nothing. Just—Kenneth. [She fetches a large cup from the table up stage.]
DOWEY [between bites]. Now don’t you be thinking, Missis, for one moment that you’ve got me.
MRS. DOWEY [busy with milk and sugar]. No, no.
DOWEY [spreading jam]. I have a theatre tonight, followed by a randy-dandy.
MRS DOWEY. Have you? [She pours out his tea.] Kenneth, this is a queer first meeting. [She hands him a cup.]
DOWEY. It is. [Stirring the tea.] And it’s also a last meeting. [He pours tea into the saucer.] Ave atque vale. [He drinks.] That means, hail and farewell.
MRS. DOWEY [sitting on R. chair above the table]. Are you a scholar?
DOWEY. Being Scottish, there’s almost nothing I don’t know.
MRS. DOWEY. What was your trade?
DOWEY [reaching out for the loaf]. Carter—glazier, orra man, and rough jobs.
MRS. DOWEY. You’re a proper man to look at.
DOWEY [cutting another slice]. I’m generally admired.
MRS. DOWEY [rising]. She’s an enviable woman.
DOWEY. Who?
MRS. DOWEY. Your mother. [Up to the small table.]
DOWEY. Eh? Oh! That was just protecting myself from you. [She turns, a small cup and saucer in her hand, and looks at him, very still.] I have neither father nor mother nor wife nor grandmamma. [She brings the cup down to the table. He continues bitterly.] This party never even knew who his proud parents were.
MRS. DOWEY [excited]. Is that true?
DOWEY. It’s Gospel.
MRS. DOWEY. Heavens be praised! [She pours herself a cup of tea.]
DOWEY. Eh? None of that! I was a fool to tell you. But don’t think you can take advantage of it. Pass the cake.
MRS. DOWEY [bringing cake to him, peeps at his legs]. Hairy legs!
DOWEY [jocularly, covering his legs with his coat]. Mind your manners. [Drinking to her.] But here’s to you.
MRS. DOWEY [raising her cup]. Here’s to you. [She drinks, then, slyly.] And our next meeting.
DOWEY. I canna guess where that’s to be.
MRS. DOWEY. Maybe in Berlin.
DOWEY. Gosh! If I ever get there, I believe I’ll find you waiting for me!
MRS. DOWEY. With your tea ready!
DOWEY. Ay, and good tea too!
MRS. DOWEY [sitting, as before]. Kenneth, we’ll come back by Paris.
DOWEY [gaily]. I knew ye’d say that! All the leddies hankers to get to Paris!
MRS. DOWEY [wistfully]. I want, before I die, to have a gown of Paris make, with dreamy corsage!
DOWEY. We have a song about that. [Half singing.]
Oh, Mistress Gill is very ill
And nothing can improve her,
But to see the Tuylleries
And waddle through the Louvre.
[Both laugh hilariously.]
MRS. DOWEY. Kenneth, you must learn me that. [Singing.]
Mistress Dowey’s very ill
And nothing can improve her—
DOWEY [breaking in].
But dressed up in a dreamy gown
To waddle through the Louvre!
[Both laugh heartily again. Then he suddenly realizes she is getting round him.] Now, now, now! What nonsense is this? [He rises, going below the table and up L. for his rifle.] Well, thank you for my tea. I must be stepping.
MRS. DOWEY [rising, goes L. to his R.]. Where are you living?
DOWEY [scratching his head]. That’s the question. But there’s a place called the Hut where some of the Fifth Battalion are. They’ll take me in. [Bitterly.] Beggars can’t be choosers.
MRS. Dowey. Beggars?
DOWEY. I’ve never been here before. If you knew what it is to be in such a place without a friend! I was crazy with glee when I got my leave, at the thought of seeing London at last, but after wandering its streets for four hours I’d have been glad to be back in the trenches.
MRS. DOWEY. That’s my position too, Kenneth. [He nods.] Twenty years have I been here. Folks is kind, but it’s a foreign land to me.
DOWEY [kindly]. I’m sorry for you. [Shouldering his kit.] But I see no way out for either of us. [He turns away to pick up his rifle.]
MRS. DOWEY [longingly]. Do you not?
DOWEY [checking, turns to look at her]. Are you at it again?
MRS. DOWEY. Kenneth, I’ve heard that the thing a man on leave longs for more than anything is a bed with sheets and a bath.
DOWEY [grimly]. You never heard anything truer.
MRS. DOWEY. Go into that scullery, Kenneth. [He looks at her sharply, then crosses R.] And lift the table-top and tell me what you see.
[He gives her another look at the door, disappears for a moment and returns.]
DOWEY. It’s a kind of bath.
MRS. DOWEY. You could do yourself pretty there, half at a time.
DOWEY. Me?
MRS. DOWEY. There’s a woman through the wall that would be very willing to give me a shake-down till your leave’s up.
DOWEY [snorting]. Oh, is there?
MRS. DOWEY. Kenneth—look!
[Turning L., she lets down the bed, then steps back for his approval.]
DOWEY [striding over to L.C., examines this wonder]. Hullo! That’s the dodge we need in the trenches.
MRS. DOWEY. That’s your bed, Kenneth.
DOWEY [moved]. Mine! [He grins queerly at her.] You queer old body! You spunky little divert, you! What can make you so keen to be burdened by a lump like me? [MRS. DOWEY chuckles.] I warn you I’m the commonest kind of man. I’ve been a kick-about all my life, and I’m no great shakes at the war.
MRS. DOWEY [sitting on R. end of the bed].Yes, you are. How many Germans have you killed?
DOWEY [to L. end of the table]. Just two for certain, and there was no glory in it. It was just because they wanted my shirt.
MRS. DOWEY. Your shirt?
DOWEY. ‘Well, they said it was their shirt.
MRS. DOWEY. Have you took prisoners?
DOWEY. I once took half a dozen, but that was a poor affair, too.
MRS. DOWEY. How could you take half a dozen?
DOWEY [hitching up his pack, casually]. Just in the usual way. I surrounded them.
MRS. DOWEY [rising]. Kenneth, you’re just my ideal.
DOWEY. You’re easy pleased. [He crosses to the bed and feels it. Then, loosening his kit.] Old lady, if you really want me—I’ll bide. [He sets down his pack.]
MRS. DOWEY [in a transport of joy]. Oh! Oh! Oh!
DOWEY. But mind you, I don’t accept you as a relation. [Together they raise and replace the bed.] For your personal glory you can go on pretending to the neighbours, but the best I can say for you is that you’re on your probation. I’m a cautious character, and we must see how you turn out.
MRS. DOWEY. Yes, Kenneth.
DOWEY. And now, I think, for that bath. [He goes R. towards the scullery and turns.] My theatre begins at six-thirty. A cove I met on the bus is going with me.
MRS. DOWEY [following him to C.]. You’re sure you’ll come back?
DOWEY. I leave my kit in pledge.
MRS. DOWEY. You won’t liquor up too freely, Kenneth?
DOWEY [coming a pace towards her, with a chuckle]. You’re the first to care whether I did or not. [He pats her arm.] I promise. Tod! I’m beginning to look forward to being awakened in the morning by hearing you cry, “Get up, you lazy swine!” I’ve often envied men that had womenfolk with a right to say that. [He goes R. again to the scullery door. Checks, and turns.] By Sal and Tal!
MRS. DOWEY [a shade apprehensive]. What is it, Kenneth?
DOWEY [returning to R.C.]. The theatre. It would be showier if I took a lady. [He surveys her critically.]
MRS. DOWEY. Kenneth, tell me this instant what you mean. Don’t keep me on the jumps.
DOWEY [crosses down to her L.—same business]. No, it couldn’t be done.
MRS. DOWEY. Was it—me you were thinking of?
DOWEY [striding back to her R.]. Ay, just for the moment. But you have no [with a gesture]—style.
MRS. DOWEY [humbly]. Not in this, of course—but if you saw me in my merino! [He is attentive.] Kenneth, it’s grand! It has a wee bit lace in the front!
DOWEY [drops down and sits on L. end of the table]. Let’s see it. [MRS. DOWEY hurries to the chest of drawers and takes from the lower drawer the black merino, and brings it C.] Looks none so bad. [He fingers it.] Have you a bit chiffon for the neck? [She nods eagerly.] It’s not the Kaiser, nor bombs, nor keeping the home fires burning, nor Tipperary, that the men in the trenches think about. [He shakes his head.] It’s—chiffon. [Dubiously.] Any jewellery?
MRS. Dowey. I have a brooch.
DOWEY. Umpha.
MRS. DOWEY [the boastful creature]. And I have a muff—and gloves.
DOWEY. Ay, ay [Candidly.] Do you think you could give your face a less homely look?
MRS. DOWEY. I’m sure I could.
DOWEY. Ay, ay. Then you can try. [He goes up above the table and turns.] But mind you, I promise nothing. It all depends—on the effect.
[As he goes off into the scullery, MRS. DOWEY puts the dress on the chair L. of the table. DOWEY shuts the door, and the rush of the hot-water tap is heard. MRS. DOWEY goes R., takes up the letters and throws them contemptuously into the fire. She then rushes to the pail down R., takes out the scrubbing-brush and swab, throwing these on the floor. She fills the pail from the kettle on the hob, and brings it to L. end of the table. She is about to wash, but checks. She goes down L., takes a small mirror from above the chest of drawers, and props it on the table against the pail. She examines her face and hair. Licking her palms, she smooths down her hair....]
The curtain falls for a few moments.
[Five days later.]
The curtain rises on the same scene, but the dishes are gone from the table. The gas is lit, the blinds are drawn. There are chairs at each end of the table, and chairs above and below the fireplace. DOWEY’S kit is up L. against the chair, his overcoat on the chair-back. The bed is let down. In the chest of drawers are—in the lower drawer her black dress, and in the centre drawer her merino. At this point, the top drawer contains only the cash-box and Certificates, and a small bag of lavender.
MRS. MICKLEHAM sits above the fire and MRS. TULLY is below. They are still in their charwomen clothes, but tidier. Sleeves are pulled down, aprons clean, skirts are not tucked up, and they wear hats. A very lively conversation is in progress.
MRS. MICKLEHAM [speaking before the curtain rises]. I soon told him off. “Yes,” I says, “you’ve got to make your peace terms.” [The curtain rises.] To which, says he, “Then state your peace terms, ma’am,” he says. To which, I make reply, “Reparation, restitution, and guarantys.” [MRS. TULLY nods with vigorous approval.] What do you think will happen, Sarah, after the war? Will we go back to being as we were?
MRS. TULLY. If you mean us in the charring line—[she rises, and kneeling, pokes the fire and brushes the grate]—speaking for myself, not me. The war has wakened me up, Amelia, to an understanding of my own importance that is truly astonishing.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. Same here. Instead of being the poor worms the likes of you and me thought we was, we turn out to be valiable parts of a great and ’aughty empire.
MRS. TULLY [replaces poker, straightens up, and stands back to the fire]. When we have the vote, Amelia, will the men go on having it too?
MRS. MICKLEHAM [graciously conceding]. At first. But after a bit—[MRS. HAGGERTY enters in bonnet and shawl. The other two exchange a disgusted glance.] [Privately.] Oh, here’s that submarine again.
MRS. HAGGERTY. Aren’t they back, yet? [She comes down to L. of the table.]
MRS. MICKLEHAM. No, we’ve been waiting this half-hour. They’re at the theatre again.
MRS. HAGGERTY. I just popped in with an insignificant present for him, as his leave’s up. [She moves above and to R. end of the table.]
MRS. TULLY [stiffly]. The same errand brought us.
[MRS. HAGGERTY takes the chair from R. of the table and draws it to some little distance on MRS. MICKLEHAM’S L.]
MRS. HAGGERTY. Though not in your set, Mrs. Mickleham, may I sit down? [This is a timid attempt at a sneer.]
MRS. MICKLEHAM [distantly]. It’s not our house.
[MRS. HAGGERTY sits. An awkward pause.]
MRS. HAGGERTY. It’s a terrible war.
[Pause.]
MRS. TULLY. Is that so?
[Pause.]
MRS. HAGGERTY [draws her chair a trifle nearer]. I wonder what will happen when it ends?
[Pause.]
MRS. MICKLEHAM. I’ve no idea. [She edges her chair nearer the fire, away from the intruder.]
[MRS. TULLY sits.]
MRS. HAGGERTY [after another pause]. My present is cigarettes.
MRS. MICKLEHAM [annoyed]. So’s mine.
MRS. TULLY [ditto]. Mine too. [Casually.] Mine has gold tips.
MRS. MICKLEHAM [equally casual]. So has mine.
MRS. HAGGERTY [evidently without gold tips, whimpering]. What care I? Mine—is Exquissitos.
[The others titter.]
MRS. MICKLEHAM. Excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty—if that’s your name—but the word is Exquisytos.
MRS. HAGGERTY [stiffly]. Much obliged. [She is inclined to weep.]
MRS. MICKLEHAM [rising]. I think I heard a taxi. [She goes up to the window.]
MRS. TULLY [following her]. It’ll be her third this week.
MRS. HAGGERTY [as the others peer out through the blind, she turns her chair]. What is she in?
MRS. MICKLEHAM. A new astrakhan coat he gave her, with Venus sleeves.
MRS. HAGGERTY. Has she sold her “Dainty Moments” coat?
MRS. MICKLEHAM [coming down to above the table]. Not her. She has them both at the theatre. The one she’s wearing, and the other she’s carrying flung careless-like over her arm.
[MRS. TULLY comes down to the fireplace.]
MRS. HAGGERTY [to MRS. MICKLEHAM]. I saw her strutting with him yesterday as if the two of them made a procession. [MRS. MICKLEHAM ignores this and returns to the window.] [To MRS. HAGGERTY.] She was in her merino, of course.
[MRS. TULLY turns away to the fireplace.]
MRS. MICKLEHAM. Hsh! They’re coming! [MRS. HAGGERTY rises, replaces the chair and goes up to the window.] She’ll guess we’re here as the light’s on. Strike me dead if she’s not come mincing in hooked on his arm! [She crosses down to L. of the table.]
[Enter MRS. DOWEY and DOWEY as foretold. They leave the door open. Undoubtedly she is putting on airs. The astrakhan is over her merino, and she is in gloves, muff, and bonnet. A cloak is over her arm and she carries a small bag containing a champagne cork. It is not a comic get-up, but quiet and in good taste, though the effect is quaint. DOWEY’S clothes are now clean and his buttons, badges, etc., are bright.]
MRS. DOWEY. Kenneth! We have visitors!
DOWEY. Your servant, ladies! [He closes the door.]
MRS. TULLY. Evening! We’re not meaning to stay.
MRS. DOWEY. You’re very welcome. [Rather ostentatiously.] Just wait till I get out of my muff [she places it on the table with the bag]—and my astrakhan—and my cloak [she places these on back of the chair L. of the table]—and my Excelsior.… [This last is the bonnet, which she takes L. to the chest of drawers.]
MRS. MICKLEHAM. You’ve given her a glory time, Mr. Dowey.
DOWEY [throws his bonnet on the table, crossing to the fire, and warming his hands—below MRS. TULLY]. It’s her that has given it to me, ma’am.
[MRS. MICKLEHAM moves above the table.]
MRS. DOWEY [returning to L. of the table, giggling]. He! he! he! He just pampers me! The Lord forgive us, but being his last night, we had a sit-down supper at a restaurant! I swear, we had champagny wine! [The others are a little stiff. MRS. DOWEY takes the cork out of the bag and holds it up.] And to them as doubts my words. There’s the cork.
MRS. MICKLEHAM [stiffly]. I’m sure.
MRS. TULLY [approaching, and speaking across the table]. I would thank you, Mrs. Dowey, not to speak against my Alfred.
MRS. DOWEY. Me! [She replaces the cork in her handbag.]
DOWEY [crossing up between MRS. TULLY and MRS. HAGGERTY]. Come, come, ladies! If you say another word I’ll kiss the lot of you.
[Pleased confusion. MRS. TULLY retires coyly down R. MRS. HAGGERTY moves up c., while MRS. MICKLEHAM comes L.C.]
MRS. DOWEY [during the above]. Kenneth! [Above the table.]
MRS. MICKLEHAM. Really! Them sodgers!
MRS. TULLY. The Kilties is the worst!
MRS. MICKLEHAM. I’m sure we don’t grudge you your treats, Mrs. Dowey, and sorry we are that this is the end.
DOWEY. Yes, it’s the end. Leave’s up. [He glances at MRS. DOWEY.] I must be off in ten minutes....
[MRS. DOWEY makes a sudden bolt into the scullery. The others turn and look sympathetically at the door. DOWEY turns and goes to the fireplace, his face averted.]
MRS. MICKLEHAM. Poor soul. [They look at DOWEY.] We must run! [She crosses to L. end of the table, producing the cigarettes from her underskirt pocket.] You’ll be having some last words to say to her.
DOWEY [facing them with a worried expression]. I kept her out long on purpose, so as not to have much time to say them in.
MRS. TULLY [putting her chair back against the wall down R.]. It’s the best way. [She produces her cigarettes and goes up to DOWEY.] Just a mere nothing to wish you well, Mr. Dowey. [She gives him the cigarettes, a little breathless, then goes up towards the door L.C.]
MRS. MICKLEHAM [crosses to him below the table, gives him cigarettes]. A scraping, as one might say. [She turns and joins MRS. TULLY, below and on her L.]
MRS. HAGGERTY [comes down to R. end of the table]. The heart is warm, though it may not be gold-tipped. [She gives him the cigarettes, and retreats L. to R. of MRS. TULLY.]
DOWEY [crossing quickly above and to L. of the table, touched]. You bricks! [He extends his hand.] Shake! [He shakes hands first with MRS. HAGGERTY, then MRS. TULLY, lastly with MRS. MICKLEHAM. They retire to the door in that order, MRS. HAGGERTY opening it.] [As he crosses L. to the chair.] If you see a soger man up there wi’ this sort of thing [turning, indicates the kilt], he’s the one that’s going back with me. [He puts the cigarettes in his overcoat.] Tell him not to come down, but to give me till the last moment, and then to whistle. [He puts on his Tartan scarf.]
MRS. TULLY. I understand. Good luck. [She exits to R.]
MRS. MICKLEHAM. Good luck ! [She exits to R.]
MRS. HAGGERTY [pointing to his kilt]. That’s your style! [She exits to R.]
[DOWEY puts on his coat, buttons it up, closes the door up L., and stands. Then he tries to grin, but fails. Mutters, “Hell!” Then crosses determinedly to scullery door, and putting his head inside, calls:]
DOWEY. Old lady! [He backs two paces L.]
[MRS. DOWEY comes out of the scullery. She is in her merino only, and once more a timid thing.]
MRS. DOWEY. Is it—time ?
DOWEY. Not yet. I’ve left word with Dickson that he’s to whistle when go I must.
MRS. DOWEY [crosses slowly and sits on the bed L.]. All’s ended.
DOWEY [who is troubled himself. He crosses to L. end of the table]. Now, now! You promised to be gay.
MRS. DOWEY [looks up at him and tries to smile]. Ay, Kenneth.
DOWEY. It’s bad for me. But it’s worse for you.
MRS. DOWEY. The men have their medals to win, you see.
DOWEY. The women have their medals too. And they wear them in their hearts, where you wear yours. [He sits on end of the table, and tries to be brusque.] Come here! [She starts to rise.] No, I’ll come to you. [He crosses to R. end of the bed, looking down at her.] My God! You’re a woman!
MRS. DOWEY. I had near forgot it.
DOWEY. Have you noticed you have never called me “son”?
MRS. DOWEY. Have I noticed? I was feared, Kenneth. You said I was on probation.
DOWEY. And so you were. Son! It’s a little word, but you’ve made me value it. Well, the probation’s ended.
MRS. DOWEY. Will I do?
DOWEY [with a mischievous return to an earlier manner]. Woman, don’t be so forward! Wait till I’ve proposed.
MRS. DOWEY. Propose for a mother?
DOWEY. What for no? [Kneeling.] Mrs. Dowey, have I your permission to ask you the most important question an orphan can ask of a nice old lady?
MRS. DOWEY [giggling]. None of your sauce, Kenneth!
DOWEY. For a long time, Mrs. Dowey, you cannot have been unaware of my sonnish feelings for you....
MRS. DOWEY. Wait till I get my mop to you!
DOWEY. And if you’re not willing to be my mother, I swear I’ll never ask another ...
[She pulls his head down, embraces him, and strokes his hair. Her sadness has come back.]
MRS. DOWEY. You’re just trying to make me gay.
DOWEY. I wish you could do the same for me. [She smiles bravely.] Was I a well-behaved infant, Mother?
MRS. DOWEY. Not you, sonny! You were a rampaging rogue!
DOWEY [sitting back on his heels]. Was I slow in learning to walk?
MRS. DOWEY. The quickest in our street! [The chuckle dies on her lips. She rises, moving L.] Was that—the whistle?
DOWEY. No, no! [He rises.] See here, in taking me over you have, in a manner of speaking, joined the Black Watch. [She puts her hands up to her eyes.] So you’ve got to be as proud as—as that ghostly piper. [He comes to attention.] ’SHUN! [She “Shun’s.”] That’s the style! [He goes to her.] You’ve to be true to this little flag, you see. [He indicates the little flag in her bodice.]
MRS. DOWEY. I am true to it, Kenneth.
DOWEY. You’re great. [He crosses up above the bed for the pack.] I’ve sent your name in as being my nearest of kin. Your allowance will be coming to you weekly in the usual way.
MRS. DOWEY. Eh, is it wicked, Kenneth?
DOWEY [hitching on his pack]. I’ll take the responsibility for it in both worlds. You see, I want you to be safeguarded in case anything hap ...
MRS. DOWEY. Kenneth! [Her head down, her hand out.]
DOWEY. ’SHUN! [She obeys.] Have no fear, I’ll come back, covered with mud and medals. [Trying to be brusque.] And mind you have that cup of tea waiting for me. Come here ! [He comes to below the bed. She approaches him, and he sits, pulling her down on his knee. She chuckles.] What fun we’ll have writing to each other. Real letters this time!
MRS. DOWEY. Ay!
DOWEY. It would be a good plan if you began the first letter as soon as I’ve gone.
MRS. DOWEY. I will.
DOWEY. I hope that Lady Dolly will go on sending me cakes.
MRS. Dowey. You may be sure.
DOWEY [takes off his Tartan scarf and puts it round her neck]. You must have been a bonny thing when you were young.
MRS. DOWEY [pushing him away playfully]. Away with you!
DOWEY. It sets you fine.
MRS. Dowey. Blue was always my colour.
[The whistle is heard. MRS. DOWEY rises, and goes to the chair L. of the table, her face averted. DOWEY rises.]
DOWEY. ’SHUN! [She obeys. He goes to her, turns her round and places his hands affectionately on her shoulders.] Old lady, when I’m out there in the trenches, I’ll have something to think of I never had before—home. This room, you with your mop and pail, are what Blighty means to me now.
She pulls his head down and kisses him on the fore¡head. Then pulls herself together and runs into the scullery, closing the door. [Quick change here.] DOWEY gives his pack a hitch, goes for bonnet and puts it on, and slings his rifle. An idea strikes him, and he crosses quickly to R., takes pen, ink, and paper from the shelf above the fire and places them ready for MRS. DOWEY on the table. The whistle is repeated. He glances at the window. DOWEY goes to the scullery door, opens it softly and peeps in. We gather that Mrs. Dowey is on her knees, for he takes off his bonnet reverently, pauses, and then, turning away, goes out at the door up L. C. as—
The curtain falls.
When the curtain rises, it is early morning, a month or two later. The blinds are up and the early sunshine streams in.
On the table are certain articles, namely, DOWEY’S bonnet, on the L. of this a small packet of letters tied with ribbon, and the champagne cork. In the centre is the cash-box containing the Certificates.
During this scene, low distant music of pipers playing the Black Watch Lament, The Flowers of the Forest, is heard.
MRS. DOWEY is kneeling at the chest of drawers, taking from a lower drawer her best dress. She rises with it, brushing it carefully with her hand, and takes it over to the table. She lays it down, brushes the bonnet and places this on the dress. She then polishes the champagne cork with her apron and places it by the bonnet.
The Lament ceases as she does this.
Next, she opens the cash-box and examines the Certificates. Closing it, she places this, too, on the dress.
Faintly, the Lament re-commences. She takes up the letters, presses them for a moment to her bosom, and puts them on the dress. Then she lifts all, and crossing, takes them over to the dr[awer and lays them in.
She then takes the Tartan scarf from a top drawer and spreads it over the things in the lower one. Lastly, she takes a bag of lavender from the upper drawer and places this on the scarf, after smelling it.
The Lament ceases.
MRS. DOWEY closes the drawer gently. Then, turning to her pail and brushes down L., she picks them up, and goes slowly, bravely, off to her work through the door up L.C.
Slow curtain.